Arm of the Sphinx (The Books of Babel, #2)

by Josiah Bancroft

History is a love letter to tyrants written in the blood of the overrun, the forgotten, the expunged!”

“So, you stole a squirrel,” he said, pointing at her. “Then when the owner came to claim it, you”—his finger turned to Iren—“threw him through the wall.” Iren looked uncharacteristically abashed. “And where were you during all of this, Adam?” “Holding a pistol under the table.” Senlin rubbed the back of his neck. “Of course you were.”

Iren looked the captain and first mate up and down, taking in Edith’s split lip, the gory stains on her tattered scarf and the captain’s shirt, the sling that pinned her mighty arm to her breast, the gash of blood on his forehead, the glowing dust that frosted them from hat to boot, and the strong smell of smoke wafting from their clothes. “How was the zoo?” she asked.

The gaps in a library are like footprints in the sand: They show us where others have gone before; they assure us we are not alone.